Nicotine and Gravy

I am reminded,

reminded of nicotine and gravy,

the gum under the desk that grazed my fingers,

I wince and whine at someone else’s vile disrespect,

when I lean further back in my chair and croak out a laugh.

As I’m released from an ADHD prison,

I walk blind, led by an old device,

the shards of glass cutting deeper,

dissatisfied skipping song to song,

the buttons, old and stuck, turning the volume all the way up.

Rows of thick crabgrass are beheaded by my feet,

I pluck leaves off the tree where I dash so the neighbors don’t see,

as the tractor hums my stomach scolds with frustration,

and reminds me of the sandwich I’ll be making at home,

a masterpiece of perfectly meshed condiments,

and whatever else can be found in the fridge,

spread along a nice disgusting whole wheat loaf.

Naive about the “buried animals that call her name”,

I jump and twist and hit my head on the radiator,

a symphony of irritation,

tuned precisely to my brother’s annoyance,

stings and sizzles with perfect harmony.

Curtains sway and warm from the sticky breeze,

and I’m met by Earth’s constant companion,

where a man on the moon winks at me,

and when my palm meets my temple,

I hear the soft ticking of a cheap plastic watch,

and I’m lured into the unconscious mind.

In this state my wrists are gripped by the drums,

and the guitar solo which pierces my ears,

and tells me to keep running,

running towards the peanut butter and sound,

the thick range of instruments stuck to the roof of my mouth,

and the funk that taps my headboard.

I escape to the numbing wood under my toes,

where my brother has calmed,

and I’m invited back to his throne,

where this time I jump even higher,

because he now praises FM,

and something about foxes that are fleeting,

and the leaves I pluck are colossal.